Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

by Michael Bond

  ‘He was very much into cigarettes at one time. A container-load is worth a great deal and is easily disposed of – especially if you happen to control all the machines which dispense them. Currently, I understand he is very much interested in caviar. It is a matter of bartering. The Russian Mafia, such as it is, will do anything for foreign currency. I am told that if you hail a taxi in Moscow the first question the driver asks is not where are you going, but how you wish to pay? If you say roubles, then he goes on his way leaving you stranded.

  ‘Forty francs’ worth of Beluga caviare at source is worth the equivalent of 20,000 francs in Rome and corruption abounds.

  ‘Kidnapping, protection, extortion, loan sharking … all the usual things. All, that is, except gambling and prostitution. It is against the principles of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra to be involved in either – they leave that to their American counterparts. Gambling indicates a weakness which they have no wish to exploit lest they themselves get tainted in the process, and for a Sicilian, living on a woman’s earnings is dishonourable.

  ‘As a man of honour, that is one of the principal reasons why Uncle Caputo is so protective of his only daughter. To date he has always kept her free from the gaze of other men. Letting her come to stay in Paris only came about as a result of much pleading on her part and an undertaking on ours that we would never let her out of our sight. On pain, Pamplemousse, of certain anatomical modifications to our persons as yet hardly touched on by the medical journaux should we fail in our task.’

  ‘If that is the case, Monsieur, why did you agree to have her to stay?’

  ‘Why do you pay your income tax, Aristide? Certainly not because you do not wish to hurt the feelings of those in power by declining.’

  ‘Would it not have been better to have gone to Rome yourself?’

  The Director raised his hands. ‘Work, Aristide, work! It never goes away. Having said that, I cannot tell you the guilt I feel at having placed you in this onerous position. I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy.

  ‘Once Uncle Caputo learns what has happened he will lose no time in tracking you down. Whatever happens we must find Caterina first. At least we know what we are looking for. There can’t be many girls in convent school uniform loose in Paris. It can only be a matter of time.’

  ‘Aah!’ It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to drain his glass. ‘We may have a problem there, Monsieur. It depends what she is wearing. It could be either one of two extremes.’

  He picked up the envelope the receptionist had given him and carefully unwound the string fastening the flap. Trigaux had certainly excelled himself. It was packed with glossy 20 cm × 25 cm prints. He must have dropped everything. Perhaps the subject matter had appealed to him.

  ‘These are some photographs I took on the journey.’

  Removing them, he flipped through the pile. Most of the earlier ones were of Pommes Frites: Pommes Frites gazing out of the hotel window; Pommes Frites chasing a Roman pigeon; Pommes Frites waiting patiently outside the Vatican, looking as though he might be hoping for an audience with the Pope.

  The photographs he was searching for were at the end of the pile. Apart from the colour prints of those taken inside the Termini at Rome, where he could have done with a faster film, they looked sharp enough. The ones taken on the train were on black and white stock and bore all the hallmarks of a flash photograph; hard shadows, lack of facial tones, but they were pleasing nevertheless. Although he said it himself, they wouldn’t have disgraced the pages of many a fashion magazine.

  ‘These are the snaps I was looking for, Monsieur. As you will see, they show two different sides of your niece – before and after as it were.’

  The Director sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘Before and after what, Pamplemousse?’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to ignore the interruption. ‘The first two were taken when your petite cousine arrived at la gare, Monsieur. The rest were taken on the Palatino after she had changed for dîner.’

  As he glanced at the photographs, the remaining colour drained from the Director’s face.

  ‘This is terrible, Pamplemousse. Much worse than I believed possible. I would hardly call them snaps.’

  ‘They were intended as a surprise, Monsieur.’

  ‘They are more than that, Pamplemousse. They are a severe shock. I can hardly believe my eyes.’

  ‘I have to admit I was somewhat taken aback myself, Monsieur. It was a total transformation.’

  ‘Where were the later pictures taken, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘She was sitting on the bed in my compartment.’

  The Director clutched the side of his chair. ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘There is no cause for alarm, Monsieur. I can assure you it is not how it looks. The door was open at all times. The compartments are very small and I had to stand in the corridor in order to achieve a pleasing composition. There was an American couple in the one next to mine. I remember the first flash made them jump. There is also the conductor. He made up a bed for Pommes Frites and received a handsome pourboire for his trouble …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s voice trailed away. The conductor was one witness he would never be able to call on. He wondered if he should tell the Director what had happened to the man, then thought better of it.

  ‘Pamplemousse, this story must never, ever reach the ears of others.’

  ‘Least of all the Mother Superior?’ hazarded Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It is not the Mother Superior I am worried about,’ said the Director, ‘It is Uncle Rocco.’

  ‘There is no earthly reason why he should ever know, Monsieur.’

  ‘What if the person operating the processing machine took a fancy to the pictures and had copies made?’

  ‘I hardly think that is likely, Monsieur.’ Trigaux’s last words to him had been ‘Don’t tell the chief – he’s having a purge on home processing. Madame Grante’s been getting at him.’ He couldn’t let him down.

  ‘You do not know, Pamplemousse. You do not know. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the conces sionaires are already paying some form of protection money – “insurance” against unforeseen dilution of their chemicals en route from the factory. Not necessarily to Uncle Caputo – it is not his territory – but to the member of another family.’

  ‘This is France, Monsieur, not Sicily.’

  The Director looked less than convinced. ‘I trust these are the only pictures you took? You are not hiding anything?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Monsieur? You surely don’t think … Caterina is young enough to be my daughter – my granddaughter even. What I have told you is the simple truth.’

  ‘The truth is seldom simple, Aristide, and it often has as many faces as there are those involved. I do not doubt your version of the affair, or that your intentions were entirely honourable. Doubtless, if you asked Caterina for her opinion, she would see it in an entirely different light.

  ‘However, what you or I think is immaterial. It is what Uncle Rocco thinks that matters. I am simply placing myself in his shoes. Shoes, Pamplemousse, purchased from Salvatore Ferragamo in Florence and polished with the blood of those who have offended him along the way; burnished until they could have seen their own faces in them had they still been alive to do so, and always assuming they would have wished to see their faces after he had finished with them.

  ‘I know the way his mind works. There you are in Rome, meeting his only beloved daughter – a girl still at convent school. Within an hour you have persuaded her to dress in a manner which would not have passed unnoticed on the stage of the Folies Bergère. You then take her to the buffet car and ply her with drink.’

  ‘It would have seemed churlish not to have offered her any liquid refreshment, Monsieur. I felt sure you would wish me to.’

  ‘There are other beverages, Pamplemousse. Some form of Cola might have been preferable in the circumstances.’
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br />   Monsieur Pamplemousse felt for his notebook. ‘I kept a strict record, Monsieur …’

  The Director raised his hand. ‘Wait, I have not yet finished. I am merely seeing things through Uncle Rocco’s eyes. Having plied his only daughter with drink, you take her back to your compartment and there you persuade her to pose in a most provocative manner. Shortly afterwards you ask the attendant to make up another bed, offering the lame excuse that it is for your dog. On your own admission you offered the man a sum of money, presumably to make sure his lips were sealed. Doubtless the same couple who were startled by your flash witnessed you doing that too.

  ‘Try convincing Uncle Rocco it was all done in pure innocence. You will soon see why he deserves the nickname “Caputo”.’

  ‘It shows a great lack of faith in his daughter, Monsieur.’

  ‘It shows a great lack of faith in human nature, Pamplemousse, but where he comes from faith in human nature lies thinly on the ground, usually surmounted by a cross to show where it died. Uncle Rocco’s reasoning would be that it is not simply a case of Caterina exchanging her dark blue bloomers with double gussets for frilly garments of a more provocative kind. If you think what that prospect does to others, think what it must also do to the wearer. A wearer, moreover, who is doubtless still suffering from having once already reached out to pluck the forbidden fruit, only to feel it literally slip from her grasp. Whatever the outcome of this sad affair, the fact remains that in his eyes you have condemned her to eternal damnation and there is no going back.

  ‘Now, to cap everything, you have lost her and she is all alone in a strange city. The heady rush of Parisian air in her nostrils may well have brought on an attack of amnesia, leaving her unable to make up her mind which way to turn. I need hardly remind you, Pamplemousse, that the streets of Paris are filled with those who will be only too willing to guide her.’

  Gloom settled over the Director again. ‘You know what this means, of course?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

  ‘You must go to ground, Pamplemousse, possibly never to emerge.’

  ‘But why me, Monsieur?’

  ‘Because, Pamplemousse, as soon as Uncle Rocco hears the news you will be seen as the prime suspect and he will go for the jugular.’

  ‘But, Monsieur, I have already said I can explain everything …’

  ‘Explanations,’ said the Director heavily, ‘do not come easy when you are standing at the bottom of the Seine wearing nothing but a pair of concrete boots. “Thinks balloons” will emerge as bubbles. You see now why I said we cannot possibly go to the police. No-one must know what has happened. I will stay here and man the fort, staving off all questions to the best of my ability.

  ‘Your only hope – your only salvation – lies in finding Caterina with all possible speed. In the meantime you must make yourself as scarce as possible.’

  It didn’t escape Monsieur Pamplemousse’s notice that the two tasks were not exactly compatible, nor did he fail to observe that the Director was already distancing himself from the affair. The word ‘you’ was starting to appear with alarming regularity.

  ‘I will instruct Véronique to light a candle for you in the church of St Pierre du Gros Caillou.’ As the Director picked up the phone, he felt in his pocket, then he appeared to change his mind. ‘I shall also warn Chantal not to return to Paris until I give her the all-clear. I suggest you make similar arrangements with your own wife.’

  While he was talking, the Director turned and crossed once again to his French windows, there to gaze silently at the lowering sky. It was a clear signal, if one were needed, that conversation was at an end.

  Imbued with a sense of impending doom, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way slowly out of the room, closely followed by Pommes Frites, his tail hanging at a suitably recumbent angle.

  Véronique was already taking the Director’s call. ‘Oui, Monsieur, I will make sure it is carried out straight away. Oui, Monsieur, I will arrange for a candle to be lit. The ten-franc size? Oui, I will take it out of petty cash.’

  As Monsieur Pamplemousse passed her desk she placed her other hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver. She looked in a state of shock.

  ‘Monsieur … I had no idea …’

  ‘It happens …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t know what to say.

  Véronique looked as though she would either burst into tears at any moment or start organising a collection on his behalf. Either way it was no time to linger.

  As he left the building Monsieur Pamplemousse paused, unsure for the moment which way to go; whether to take his car or walk for a while. Suddenly feeling very alone, he looked round to make sure Pommes Frites was still with him. He also couldn’t help but wonder how long a ten-franc candle normally lasted. A day? Two days? Knowing the ways of the Vatican, probably a lot less. To the best of his knowledge the church of St Pierre du Gros Caillou was used by Ukrainians, but at least it was fairly near the office.

  It didn’t add to his peace of mind that on the way out he had called in at the Operations room: that sacred part of the building where, day and night, uniformed girls armed with long poles kept constant vigil on the whereabouts of all the Inspectors, manoeuvring their personal figurines around a table-top map of France with croupier-like efficiency as they updated their every movement.

  His own figurine had already been relegated to a parking bay near the back; somewhere on the outskirts of Lille.

  4

  THE SEARCH BEGINS

  A feeling of déjà vu came over Monsieur Pamplemousse as he arrived back at his apartment. The telephone was ringing again. This time he decided to ignore it. If it was the Director with more prophecies of doom he didn’t wish to know. If it was anyone else they could wait. First things first. Number one priority was a stiff drink. Brillat-Savarin had never spoken a truer word when he said that man is the only creature who drinks when he is not thirsty.

  He poured himself a large cognac. After the earlier Roullet it tasted like firewater. Très Rare Hors d’Age was not what it was all about. When all this was over – if it was ever over – he would remind the Director that a bottle of his favourite cognac wouldn’t look out of place in the drinks cabinet chez Pamplemousse. In the circumstances it was the least Monsieur Leclercq could do.

  After a moment or two Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the telephone and dialled a Melun number. He drew the short straw. Doucette’s sister answered.

  ‘Agathe. How are you?’ He immediately regretted asking. Agathe was the kind of person whose health one didn’t enquire after. It was her favourite subject. Visits to the doctor were seldom undertaken without her taking along a wall chart showing all the organs of the female body – in full colour.

  Cupping the receiver under his left ear, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the envelope he had brought back from the office and emptied the contents on to the table. Spreading the photographs out across its surface, he began sorting through them, putting the earlier ones – mostly of Pommes Frites – to one side in order to concentrate his attention on the last reel. He had said it before and he would say it again – Trigaux had done a good job. It was easy to see why. The Director’s petite cousine must have made a pleasant change from endless shots showing the outside of hotels.

  There was no doubt Caterina was beautiful. She had a haunting quality. She would go places, of that he was sure. There was a determined look in her eyes. But wasn’t there something else as well? Another, deeper layer. A vulnerability perhaps, or an innocence? Perhaps in the end she was a flawed beauty? It was hard to say which element lay just beneath the surface and which was on top. The various sides of her character seemed inextricably mixed up; each one trying to fight its way out. But wasn’t that the case with most teenagers?

  And had there not been, in that brief moment when she had suddenly and unexpectedly kissed him in the train, an exchange of something else again? It had nothing to do with giving or taking, or of expecting anything in return. It had simply
been a brief and uncomplicated moment of truth; the sharing of a secret, as with a brother and sister. Or perhaps more appositely in this case, between father and daughter. A bond had been forged, like the wiping of a pin-prick of blood on to the paper image of a saint in a Mafia initiation ceremony, and he knew that whatever happened, if Caterina were in trouble he would go to her aid without question.

  ‘Chérie.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised Doucette was talking to him. It was a good thing videophones were still a thing of the future. ‘Have you been trying to get me? A moment ago …?

  ‘Non? I simply wondered, that is all. The phone was ringing when I came in …

  ‘Non. I have been at the office. Pommes Frites and I had a good déjeuner. Too much … I am afraid we went to sleep afterwards. I would have telephoned before, but something urgent has cropped up at work. It always happens near publication time.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, wondering how best to frame what he wanted to say. In the event the problem was solved without his having to say a word. Doucette was the one who sounded worried; more on his behalf than her own.

  ‘Couscous, of course I do not mind if you stay the night. Stay for as long as you wish. I shall be busy for the rest of the week …’

  He hoped he hadn’t sounded too relieved, too anxious to fall in with her plans. Doucette had a keen ear for undue emphasis; the unnecessary underlining of words in what was intended to be taken merely as a casual remark. Out of context, such utterances didn’t always stand up to close analysis. Her next question realised his worst fears.

  ‘Monsieur le Directeur’s petite cousine? Poof! She is but a child.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse cast his eyes around the room and settled on a photograph of his sister-in-law. ‘I fear nature has not been kind to her, Couscous. She is grossly overweight and much given to complaining.’

  ‘Oh dear, Aristide, did you have a very tedious time?’ Doucette sounded contrite. He must have struck a sympathetic chord. No doubt she was suffering too.